Voodoo Child
by lifeundecided
Summary: He was allowed to be an asshole, drive a hard bargain, intimidate and disgust, to get the sale done. Because he was the best. And if they wanted to mess around with some second rate charlatan who'd fuck them over and steal their soul for good measure, on their heads be it.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: I wrote this while I was supposed to be studying, and failing that I should be finishing off He and She, but I couldn't help myself. The idea came to me and I wasn't prepared to let it go to waste. __I won't be updating this again until He and She is finished, but I haven't got much left to go. Thank you for reading!_

"Adam. This isn't Seattle. Don't bullshit me. This woman... I know what she's worth. You won't find anyone else who can get it right; she needs subtlety. Are you telling me that you'll go to some bullshit street performer for the sake of a few thousand dollars? I know what _bespoke_ services are worth."

He was allowed to be an asshole, drive a hard bargain, intimidate and disgust, to get the sale done. Because he was the best. And if they wanted to mess around with some second rate charlatan who'd fuck them over and steal their soul for good measure, on their heads be it. But not Adam. Adam was younger than he, even. Not as good, not as practiced. Seventeen. He was allowed to slip up for another year, at most. Then the other side would be coming to collect. He had to teach him to get it done properly, now, because his time was running out.

"Tate... I'm on a budget. It's not my money to give away. Of course I know how much it's worth, but the client doesn't have a clue. He's a shrink. You think he's ever set foot in a den? They'd kill him if he tried."

"Six thousand? Two week deadline? Fine. You fucking owe me one. Tell that to the shrink."

Tate needed a coffee. Or a Scotch. But he was a couple of hours and a couple of years too early, according to the cleaner side of town. That, and the tattoos freaked people out. Nobody wants to see a shadow man drinking Starbucks in broad daylight. Shatters the illusion of segregation.

They'll let the people with piercings and stained skin serve them in cafés, the ones with surgically forked tongues and white plastic eyes cut their hair, their shaking hands and alcohol breath puffing out over porcelain toilet bowls and dirty floors. Then there are the people like him. Who look no different to the subservient masses. But they're further from the high class paper chain people than drug addicts and whores.

They're witches, almost. Born and bred; he played with dolls and sticking pins as an infant. It's laughable to him, that he's confused with a wayward human on the street. He's had these tattoos since birth. They don't know that, of course. His brothers and sisters live in secret: even the proletariat think he's one of them. LA isn't exactly New Orleans, by any stretch of the imagination, but their presence is... large. It would have to be, in a town like this. Think of every actor playing the part of penniless waiter; he farms souls by the hundred.

He's nineteen years old and he's seen one hundred thirteen people die at his hand. His mother always told him they weren't people, not really. That woman had class. She sold her body to a witch for fame, and she made him think it was his idea. But who'll cast a twenty year old with a swollen belly? Or a twenty three year old with a disabled kid and another one on the way? Or a twenty eight year old single mother with three kids and a manslaughter charge?

Tate's father took her first born, and her second, and claimed their mother's debt. He took her beautiful babes and destroyed all she loved about them. She shot him before he could do the same to her third. Then Tate was born with the face of death and she tried to kill him too. Too bad he has skin like steel.

It comes in handy, of course. Sometimes his... projects know he's coming. His father made their deals, and he's here to collect; they expect he's as weak as his old man, that they'll be able to bar their doors and grip a knife and that will send him running. Not likely, since he's been dealing for three years, and cleaning up his father's contracts for even longer.

His mother couldn't keep him away from the world he's meant for - he's thankful to his father for one thing, at least. They whisper to him. The voices from the darkness, that point him toward his next victim, the next greedy soul that's his to reap. He tries his best not to dress in black all the time, but it's difficult. Black stays clean longer, and blood doesn't show.

He has the face of a skeleton, black ink on white skin that's not exactly ink. It moves and flows and changes shape. Most people don't notice. He's learned to avoid mirrors. And the irony kills him; he's different from the others, who whisper and clasp hands and send their victim to the depths of hell in respectable silence. He needs the blood. His father, and his father's father, as long as even the darkness can remember, have sealed their deals in it - that's what makes him the best. He doesn't just take the soul, but their life force, every drop. The humans reach heights of fame never imagined by the amateurs who call themselves his equals, and die in ways that would make any other sick.

He sort of likes it.

There's a sense of justice in it. He doesn't seek them out; they come to him in droves, begging to slice their palm and splash themselves across the silver screen. They find him in his private booths in seedy clubs and dilapidated bedrooms in crack dens. Often women say that he's hanging around with the wrong crowd; if he could only give himself new skin he'd do so well on screen. They've never seen better bone structure. He bites the inside of his cheek and tells them he _is_ the wrong crowd. His every word is dripping in charisma, the right amount of polished tongue in cheek to put them at ease and have them panting after his knife and the world he can deliver.

If they're willing to make his deal, they deserve to pay his price. He's never asked any of his associates how they came about the business, since they're most likely voodoo babies too. He doesn't want to think about the plans made in the shadows. Tate's too close to the darkness to ever earn his freedom, and one day they're going to call up his debt. He'll be leading whatever army of souls they have for him.

He knows everything has its price, and once you pay it they know exactly where your wallet is. He speaks three other languages and writes poetry to rival Keats. German, because he wanted to visit a sex club in Berlin for his seventeenth birthday, and he was sick of crappy Rilke translations. Russian, because he thought it sounded romantic. Spanish, because he's chased more than one debtor to Mexico. All bought with years of servitude; he's up to twenty three.

Victim number one one four has less than an hour left to live. He's a sucker for a love story, and hers is especially tragic. In spite of that, he scopes out the woman's house. Fancy. She's dressed in nineteen twenties garb, which is all the rage downtown. Somebody's been getting their hands dirty. There's a voice in his left ear that tells him her husband's started taking it by force; he hit her over the head with a whisky decanter when she told him about the lady love she found in a less than respectable establishment.

The girl's name is Moira, and she's a stripper. She'll kill her lover's husband, and then herself, when she hears the news. So that's why he's been given this one. They've got it all planned, and they can't afford for a neophyte to fuck their masterpiece up.

One soul for a resurrected baby; they cheated this woman and gave her a patchwork monster instead. Her name is Nora. She knows her time is up. He hopes she told Moira goodbye.

He's a tall, slender figure all in black, slipping down the street at four o'clock in the afternoon. There's always so much more press coverage when a murder's in broad daylight, and it pays to advertise. The blood seems to much brighter when there's a pay check at the end.

It's a perk, however, not a necessity. His father's estate keeps him in alcohol, black clothes and the occasional, recreational line of coke. He lives in an apartment above a book store and tea shop that stays open late, and appreciates the metaphor that spills through his life. He spends days that always seem like midsummer watching the girls that truck through it.

His favourite is a tiny redhead who reads A Clockwork Orange with a smile that crinkles her eyes and folds one freckle over another. In his head her tea is peppermint and she has some old lady name like Irene. Her favourite colour is mustard yellow and she's never been kissed.

Moira's hair is red.

Nora's blood too.

She waits for him at the dining room table. The whole house is art deco. She doesn't belong in this time.

"She knows. About this. I wouldn't let her near Thaddeus. She didn't care. She said... that he was part of me. That he was more my blood than any other child. She'll take care of him, I'm sure."

She's crying, but her voice is steady. He takes her hand, kisses it, all old time gentleman. Slits her arms at the elbows so she'll bleed out faster. Holds her while she whispers 'Moira' and dies with a sigh.

...

Midnight is not his time of day. Things don't start moving downtown until then; it's a mess of bodies, piss and vomit that runs through the streets. LA's been edging closer to becoming a slum city for fifty years, and not even the wealthy can stop it. He's lucky; growing up straddled between his mother's world and his father's, he doesn't fit in either. But that doesn't mean he can't pretend.

He likes five in the morning; the streets are almost empty by then, and the sun hasn't really got its grip in the sky. He rules the ghost town of dead roads and dive bars, seeking refuge on the beach when he can't stand to see another girl lying broken in an alleyway.

But it's midnight, and he's taken up his perch at the bar of some neon glitter spandex club that only serves spirits and lap dances. Nobody notices how his shot glass that's spinning on the tabletop isn't really on the table - it's an inch in midair. The girl behind the bar has bright green hair split in pigtails that remind him of an anime, and she's eyeing his tattoos. Or his face. It doesn't exactly matter, because he's waiting for someone.

"Tate. Darling, why do you have me meet you in these godforsaken shit holes? I'd bet these glasses haven't been cleaned in a month."

Her hands are cold and dry, with paper thin, wrinkled, brown spotted skin and long nails that had more than once been broken in a vain attempt to draw his blood. He sidesteps her reaching hands, motioning instead for her to follow him; through a side door and into a marginally cleaner private room. He'd booked an hour slot and told the girl to take off.

"Mother. We don't have long, what do you want? Oh, no, let me guess. Money."

She presses a hand to her chest, eyes widening.

"You say that like I ask for myself. Beau's hospital bills have sky rocketed. I gave up my career to raise you; it's not like I have Daddy's inheritance to cushion me."

She's practically batting her eyelashes.

"Don't give me that _bullshit_. He hasn't left the house since I moved out. You don't think I don't keep an eye on them? I'll always be watching. I'll send the money. But I don't want to see you, or hear from you, or find out that Addie's been put in that closet again. I'll know."

Like he didn't already know that she chain smokes cigarettes from the Korean instead of buying Beau's medicine. Buys herself dresses and jewellery that nobody ever sees, because if she was away long enough, Addie would most likely slip out the house and never come back. It's not like she wouldn't have a home; he'd buy her a mansion if she asked, but Constance keeps them trapped there - she thinks they'll bring Tate back to her.

At least she only comes to him for money now. It started out as invitations to Sunday dinner, but she seemed to get the message when he stopped answering his phone. He sends his birthday cards back, stops by the house when she's walking the dogs and tells Addie to keep it a secret.

The side room has an emergency door into the alley; he slips through and suggests that the alarm short circuits itself. He emerges in a shower of sparks. There's a guy dry swallowing a pill leaning against the wall, and he gives Tate a nod, one shady character to another.

"Adam? What are you doing at... whatever this place is called?"

"Ecstasy. I bought it off some chick inside; says her name's Eris. She calls the pills Golden Delicious, 'cause, you know, the golden apple. Madness will ensue!" He stretched out his fingers, wiggling them in Tate's face.

Tate slapped him away.

"I'm headed to the club she's a promoter for. It's called The Dead Breakfast. Get it?"

"The Dead Breakfast club?"

"It's like a lost weekend every Friday night; you get locked in this seriously old library for eight hours, but it's this fucking crazy club inside, and the _girls_, man. If she's anything to go by, I might never wanna leave."

"You know that's exactly what a promoter's there for. I never took you for a tourist. And you," he slapped at Adam's arm, "definitely have a job tomorrow morning."

"Come on. Come with me. You can be my wing man. You never _ever _go anywhere_. _I've neverseen you with a girl- you're not gay, are you?"

"No. Dude."

"Then come with me."

So that was how he ended up winding his way through the streets, dodging a few broken bottles along the way, for the sake of appearances.

The library was a landmark decades ago, but the government stopped the funding when literacy fell below twenty per cent across America. Now, it's decrepit in an old money way, sweeping cobwebs and dull chandeliers. The carpets are almost completely worn away, stained and musty. But he can still see the ghost of what used to be.

The bar's a very dark, stained wood, in front of yet another massive bookshelf, packed with bottles and glasses. There are bar staff on rolling ladders, passing bottles down to others on the floor, and one too many girls giving him an unpleasant view from their perch.

He couldn't remember the last time he had spoken to someone normal. His clients didn't count, nor did his mother. Of course, his idea of normal should really be people like the ones at Dead Breakfast: tattooed, high as kites, flashing too much skin and getting in too many fights. But he struggles to hide the fact that they disgust him. Why else would he live in such an expensive neighbourhood?

Places like this were the rotten logs of the city; turn it over and things that have never seen the light of day come crawling out. He wonders what happened to all the books. Whether they were burned or just cast out, to some waste disposal plant. The people here are more trash than those forgotten volumes. The walls are spray painted, covered in materials, crumbling and damp - it's a wonder the ceiling's still up. Or maybe it's not; there are some witches who make their money in a different kind of service, and this could be one of theirs, who deal in alcohol versus souls.

They push toward the bar, Adam's hand brushing Tate's jacket. No matter how hard he tried, he could never pull off the right kind of nonchalance - Adam didn't really have the stomach for places like this.

At least they wouldn't be getting locked in tonight; he doesn't think he could stomach the smell of stale beer and sweat for eight hours straight. He needed a vodka or four. The bar was a crush, but people just seemed to part for him - he had that sort of face.

Everyone behind the bar was serving someone, pouring something, on the ladders. But there was a girl on the stack above him. And he was impatient. So the ladder shook.

It looked pretty unsafe, from where he was standing.

And then there she was in front of him.

And he couldn't hear the music any more.

Short, slight, dark blonde hair, hazel eyes, long sleeves, billowing skirt, pork pie hat.

Smirk.

"Name your poison, reaper man."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: I finally figured out an actual plot for this concept, about three hours ago. On another note, I'm not a massive fan of people saying listen to _this_ song at _this_ part, but... Violet's dancing to Girl by the Beatles in my head, just fyi. Also, hurrah for AHS: Coven, and Paleyfest, and seven and a half months to go!_

_(This seems like review whoring, but if anyone has any preference to whether we get Violet's perspective or not, please, please, please tell me. I'm severely conflicted.)_

He asked for a glass of her second best whisky that he nursed for thirty seconds before a quick tip of his head has the amber liquid tearing its way down his throat, into his bloodstream. He's got a high tolerance for alcohol and it's fortunate he's wealthy because oblivion is his favourite state of mind. Until now. There are black eyes trained on her, soaking in the way her small hands pull and slide over the beer taps; it's phallic and he thinks she knows it.

She's hiding a small smirk behind the lopsided pull of a Marlboro and a haze of blue smoke that makes her look like an ice dragon. It's fitting and it's funny and maybe Adam, that loveable little shit, put something in his drink that he pretended not to notice because he's nervous.

And she is most definitely avoiding his eyes. She knows his glass is empty, but she's more concerned with the chess game she's got going on with a guy at the other end of the bar: he's got snake eye contacts and scale tattoos covering his arms and neck. He looks about five eleven and Tate knows that he could take him. But he's making her laugh.

Even if he can't hear it, the way her mouth moves is enough to tell him that he doesn't want it to stop.

Even if it's not for him.

The bar's not as crowded, now that there's music and crowds and desperate blind drunken flailing falling dancing. He's the only one for a couple of feet of curved wood, and he knows she can see his empty glass. The snake in front of her's setting himself up for checkmate in nine moves. He may as well let her move his pieces for him; there's only one way for this particular game to go.

And that means she's bored. He can see it in the rising volume of smoke around her head, the rising of her shoulders as she sucks down nicotine and huffs it out through clenched teeth. He thinks he could take her. Especially when she takes the snake's queen after half a dozen moves with a strategy that's a favourite of his. Especially when he's buzzed because he's got certainty on his side.

"Bartender."

Her eyes snap to his because she's been watching and waiting since he walked in. He didn't have to raise his voice.

"A glass and a game. Please."

She raises an eyebrow at the please that sounds like he coughed it up and choked it out. But then he's got another glass in his hand and she's standing in front of him with a white piece in one hand and a black piece in the other. He nods toward her left hand, since the metaphor is perfection.

He's playing her game and affirming her suspicions and submitting. White moves first. Every chess metaphor in the world is swirling through the space between them.

"And your name is?"

Her eyes meet his and she somehow looks equally amused and impatient.

"_I'm the one with no soul._"

She's perfect. She's intelligent, she's playing him, testing him. She has no idea what she's saying; the gravity of her words in his ears. She's wrong. He's the soulless one.

"How does a girl like you end up in a place like this, _Violet_?"

That earns him a smirk. She was wrong to think she was the only one who knew Hole.

"What are you saying? That I'm a few tramp stamps short of qualified to serve drinks to these nice people?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Girl's got to eat."

"And a girl's got to have a father waiting somewhere uptown."

"Wrong."

Quick hands are skipping chess pieces across the board, reaching over one another. A race. She has his queen after seventy four seconds, since they're both counting.

"Think wicked step mother, and a fairy godmother in the shape of a kindly European businessman who doesn't care for ID's."

Or ventilation.

He's wearing his army jacket, all insulation, deep pockets, gold buttons. His hair's slicked back but it's starting to curl forward now in the humid air. He's oddly self conscious of it.

He's trying not to fidget. It makes no difference; the tattoos will give him away even if his hands don't, but not many people notice them move.

She's not watching him closely enough to notice. He wishes he could say the same.

Her hair's falling in waves, curling against her neck where it's darker, damp, saturated with salt. He can see her collar bone, the shape of thin shoulders, pulled into focus by the dress that swamps her small frame.

You'd never see his hands slip beneath it, it's so big.

But the wall of mahogany between them is keeping his hands folded on the bar, bones over skin over bones: black, white, and the silver of his father's ring.

"Tate Langdon."

His knuckles aren't clenched any more and he's reaching across the bar, sleeves slipping up his wrists; she's eyeing the tattoos, the ones that stretch from his hands, under his jacket: to his shoulders, across his chest, mapping out his ribs. But she doesn't know that.

And she's still not shaking his outstretched hand. She's just... standing there.

His hands are back around his glass.

"When do you get off?"

"I don't. Not until three. At which time I go _home_. Because tomorrow I'm on Dead Breakfast duty."

"Maybe I'll see you there."

"Oh I don't know. It's a pretty big place, and I might not be on the bar tomorrow."

Coy doesn't suit her. Even if she's just doing it to piss him off.

"Where on earth might you be?"

"See those tables?" She points directly behind him, down near the stage, and he cranes his neck over the heads of the crowd.

"On top of them."

"What do you mean-"

When he turns to face her, she's a retreating back, a whip of skirts around a corner.

He's fighting an urge to run after her.

...

"Adam. ADAM!" Tate's gripping his shoulder, shouting into his ear, but Adam's head is elsewhere, wrapped up in a chemical bubble, tangled in the hands and hair of the girl in front of him.

But then his so called wingman shakes his head, like a dog shaking water from its coat - if this is how he tries to sober up, Tate's not surprised he's been arrested so many times for DUI. Not his car, of course, but if the police paid attention to car thefts there would be no time for higher pursuits: donut breaks and cutting deals with prostitutes on the boardwalk.

"I'm leaving. I'll be back here tomorrow for doors. Call me."

It's only two and he wants to go home. He's drained by the strobe lights, drunken crowds, too long encounters with people he just doesn't want to see and too short encounters with people he wishes he knew.

Violet.

She doesn't belong here any more than he does, maybe even less. No tattoos, no piercings, no hair dye, no garish clothes. Nothing to say she should be here instead of uptown, in school or college or somewhere, anywhere, better. Somewhere clean.

Somewhere far away from people like him.

It's not just the company that's getting him down. It's something in the air, thick and cloying and hazy; he can barely get air into his lungs, and the ink on his skin is rippling, shifting, frenzied.

It's making him lightheaded, blind even. Because his suspicions were right; he and Adam aren't the only ones here who've got a deal with the darkness. He can practically taste it.

That someone is telling him to leave.

He once heard a woman who read tarot cards on the side (always perfectly, frighteningly accurate, of course; she didn't do so well with tourists) say that the darkness is like some almighty genie: you'll never stop getting wishes, as long as you never stop rubbing the lamp. She was one hundred and four, and looked twenty five.

But he feels like he's breaking his wrist every time he rubs: it's further confirmation that he's in it for life, that he's sealing away tomorrow for the sake of today.

Even so, he wants to go home.

So a moment later, that's where he is. At whatever cost they see fit.

The first time Adam tried to get into Tate's apartment, the door knob burned his hand, and a sleeping Tate fell out of bed at his screams. When he read up on it, the crusted old book called them wards; Tate called it personal space. So since he moved in, no-one had seen the inside of the place. It's not like it was a conscious thing, but the only companionable silence he had ever known was his own. At least someone respected his wishes.

He's lucky, because he's certain no-one but Adam knows where he lives. Because he's not on police files. Because he never leaves behind a fingerprint, or a hair.

He's lucky, because his apartment resembles that of a serial killer. One wall is covered in newspaper clippings, that tell his story since the age of fourteen. Since the day they made his palms itch and that girl's blood sing and whispered and shouted and screamed at him while he sat in his bedroom reading Animal Farm.

He killed his next door neighbour - she was seventeen years old, and her father paid for a promotion with her life. Constance made them move. She knew what it meant, when Tate showed her the girl in a bathtub full of blood. At the time, she seemed more disturbed by the girl's state of undress than her open veins.

The police don't seem to see the connection. They don't think that one person could kill so many people. That one person could disappear so completely, leave no trace. They think it's some sort of mob affair.

They don't know about his shrine to his work, or that he exists. They're just thankful for explainable deaths, that fit some sort of pigeonhole - his work is a respite from the disappearances, or spontaneous, instantaneous deaths of perfectly healthy citizens at the hands of his peers.

Apart from the wall decor, it's empty. A bookshelf, a bed, a wardrobe. All greys and blacks and wipe down surfaces, in case he ever has to take his work home with him. He's more than once made eyes at women (and a couple of men) to lure them away from crowds; they're greedy, as always. It helps to justify the knives in his bottom drawer.

The sink's full of stained mugs, the only other evidence of inhabitance. He's a coffee fiend, too: the more bitter the better. His refrigerator and cabinets are filled with random foods, nothing that could ever be used to really make a meal. He can't remember the last time he sat down to eat. Balsamic vinegar, bread, red onions, coffee beans, salt. All dark and bitter and sharp.

He gets into bed half clothed, jacket and boots abandoned at the door. He never sleeps, not really, just dozes. But this is different, this is _fatigue._

He's dead to the world, and all the more vulnerable for it.

...

His first waking thought isn't a waking thought at all, but an onslaught of frenzied information that his melted mind has been processing all night, without his permission.

She wouldn't shake his hand.

She wouldn't tell him her name.

She wouldn't stop glancing at him, challenging him, holding him in place.

She's on a witch's payroll.

She fucking _knows_.

She kept him there for someone, the kindly European businessman hiding in the shadows. Who told her about his line of work, about Tate. She saw the tattoos move, he'a sure of it, but seemed unperturbed - as if she had been waiting for him. She sought confirmation, not explanation.

But whoever this _person_ was underestimated him.

Not even Adam seals deals in names and handshakes, not since he met Tate. Giving her that bullshit advice would never keep her safe.

He's out of bed like a shot, stumbling when he sees spots. Since when did he get head rush?

The cold shower clears his head, brings him back to the land of the living.

The coffee's a necessity, the cigarette an indulgence.

But it's not right. He makes a mental note to buy a pack of Marlboros. They taste like she smells.

His clock reads eight, which means he slept for six hours or eighteen; he's willing to bet it's the latter. With his curtains pulled back, he's in a state of almost panic: he's got an hour to get back to the Dead Breakfast, to Violet.

An hour to figure out some semblance of a plan.

His phone reads three missed calls, which means Adam didn't make it home last night; he's willing to bet Adam's stranded somewhere downtown. For once, that's his problem.

Walking seems appropriate, a way to clear his head and bring him back to reality. A way to flush out whatever hoodoo's in his system. Just like anything else, it's mind over matter for people like him - the contracts, the suggestion, travelling, taking your hand off the lamp for once.

The rhythmic pounding of his shoes on the sidewalk - Chucks, this time: he's going for less mass murderer, more grungy teenager - go some way towards calming him down. The sound is lubrication for the cogs in his head, or maybe he's being given a nudge in the right direction by something other than his own intellect.

If they're covering their tracks it means it's free, right?

Soon, too soon, in fact, the library's pensive majesty is burning itself on to his retinas - his prison for the next eight hours. But that means eight hours to find _her. _Eight hours to find out who she works for, what they want with him, why she's not jumping at the chance to get on his- no. That's not exactly a priority. Yet.

There's a guy all in white at the door stamping hands, doing searches. His mind's pliable, but empty. They hired him for his muscle, not his intellectual prowess. He's new, from some sort of agency: he doesn't know any of the bar staff, never met the boss.

Tate's getting better at suggestion, the all-purpose kind of sketchy voodoo shit that allows him to bend certain rules, cross certain boundaries - namely those of physics and reality - in small ways, growing bigger all the time.

The queue behind him's only getting smaller, and there's ten minutes until they're all penned in like cattle.

Then Tate's through the door, past the guy in white who's wearing a very confused look all of a sudden, up the stairs to her slice of bar. But then, didn't she say she'd be on the tables?

He couldn't imagine it being _that _kind of club, since Adam's too virginal to even broach the subject, still too scared to talk to a girl without at least three vodkas inside him, too inexperienced, too hasty when it finally turned his blood into liquid courage.

But he can hear the music, better than last night's techno-fuckery spewing out of a DJ's booth, infinitely trippier, older. It doesn't scream sex, it whispers pleasure.

And she's dancing to it.

She's wearing a black dress that hugs her wrists, the straight planes of her body, turning them into something that looks less delicate flower, more pre-popped cherry, fanning out from her waist to brush her ankles - it's floating and swirling and she looks like some sort of enchantress, seductress, whatever, conjured out of the shadows and the darker parts of his head, she's twirling and snapping her hips and whispering the words, he knows she is, the ones that sound like moans barely hidden under rhyme schemes and catchy lyrics.

She's waiting for him.

There's a glass of second best whisky on the bar.

It's got a pack of Marlboros to keep it company.


	3. Chapter 3

_Bless the Black Keys, without whom this chapter wouldn't even be started. Please forgive the late update, it took me a while to decide that this really couldn't start off as a Tate chapter._

Bone boy is staring. She finds she doesn't mind, because if he's still breathing when the sun rises, he'll make as nice a 'fuck you' as she could hope for. Her eyes flick to the ceiling, a nervous tick, a nod to the boss, a cherished reminder that he still makes her skin crawl. It's been six months since he scooped her up and set her back on her feet, six paychecks with as many figures as bodies she's dragged to his door. That was the arrangement. One black bag a week makes for one less shift, a new shelf of books, yet another black dress to replace the ones they always tore. The greed, the impatience, the clattering of beads on the floor and the knife, or gun, hidden under the fast rising hem of her dress all seemed to fit together, mold seamlessly, fast and clean and guiltless. One bottle of bleach and a body bag (one of many gifted to her by a well connected regular) were the simple ingredients to a victimless crime. They didn't count as victims, and neither does she. They never got past the first scar on her thigh, and she's well paid for her services.

Violet doesn't like dancing. She doesn't like sifting through all the faces in the crowd to find the one she's waiting for. Always scruffier than most, crows in a flock of stuffed parrots: there's more life in a witch to wear down, much more than in the taxidermy hearts of regulars. They've got raw beauty down to a fine art; it's ethereal in a way that clashes with the blood on their hands. But most of them are ancient, because they've got the luxury of time - it erodes sharp cheekbones and dampens the fire in their eyes - they stopped making an effort around the two hundred mark.

He's different, special, dangerous, vulnerable, _young._ And he scares the boss. Tate Langdon is a powder keg of power and potential.

She doesn't have to look for his face, because he's found her. As if she was the one drowning in a sea of faces, not spotlighted and platformed and sparkling. Shouldn't be looking, shouldn't be staring, shouldn't be furiously trying to map out his skeletal face in her head for future reference. It's not like she could ever mistake him for someone else. It's not like she could ever miss her target, not when he'll be in such _close_ proximity.

There are reaching, grasping, filthy hands waiting to catch her if she slips, a safeguard against all six feet of thin air between the table and the ground. Their hands hover, trapped in the magnetic pull of her waist, but she knows she can't fall. He wouldn't let her.

Even now he's reaching for his back pocket, subconciously, one hand wandering to the knife he keeps there, the one that winked at her as he pulled his wallet out the night before.

But he's not wearing black, they all know his face, what she says goes, because for once he's Tate Langdon and not a glorified errand boy, faceless for all the shadow they'll allow him. She's smiling, giving them what they want, gritting her teeth and somehow suppressing the shudder building across her shoulders.

He won't die in a brawl on the floor of a bar in a bullshit fight for her honour.

Her steps are delicate, then she's dropping, then she's flitting through swaying bodies. Away from her entourage of letches. Toward the stare that's cold enough to make her falter, almost. But then she remembers the knife. You can't be possessive of something you don't want.

She's silent, just grabs his hand and tugs, leading him away from the roar of voices and the pulsing music that slips through every orifice, seeps through your skin. Up the staircase, behind the bookcase, into a tiny corridor that leads to the private rooms. The ones that don't exist, apparently.

The first door on the left hides black latex and spreader bars and some heavy duty whips the weekend manager bought to order: she could hide him there, blindfolded, gagged, untraceable, with wipe down surfaces and soundproofing.

Tate's smart, though. That's part of the reason why she likes him. That and she knows his back story. He kills on demand, like her. Delivers justice, like her. Executioner, not judge.

"You came back." She doesn't question why, because she knows. She always knows.

"You didn't." She left him a trail of breadcrumbs, didn't she?

"The mechanism on the revolving bookcase was stuck. I was stuck in my super villain lair all night. Thank god I fed the sharks, is all I'm saying."

"And you never told me your name."

She's on her tiptoes now. He's tall, but not so tall that she couldn't reach his lips from here. He's young, but not so young that he can't hide the fact that her hands on his shirt are making his pulse spike.

When she whispers "Violet, remember?" against his lips, he's in control, but not enough to stop her reaching behind his head, to knot in the curls against his neck, to stop himself reaching around her waist, pulling her closer, tight enough that he could count each one of her ribs, if he could remember what came after three.

She wants him to know what's behind the doors, turn the lock with a snap of his fingers, drag her inside and let her be weak for once. She wants him to know her dirty secret, hopes he can see it in her eyes and the desperate, furious movement of her lips. She wants him to whisper in her ear that he knows how she bathes in it, up to the elbows in viscera. That she sucks on her fingers, that taste like battery fluid when they drip with witches' blood.

That her fingers aren't the only things that are slick.

She wants him to leave marks on her skin; the shape of his hands black on her throat, on her ribs. She wants to belong to someone that belongs to her. She's sick of servitude.

She sighs at the thought of scratching lines into his skin, ink and blood flowing between her fingers. He's cool to the touch. Her cheeks are flaming. It's like a poem.

When her tongue's behind his teeth and she's slipping her hands over his shoulders, grasping and tugging at his shirt, fingers skipping over the waistband of his jeans, he pulls away, gasping.

She's disappointed. But at least she got a reaction. It's nice to know her methods work on those who aren't desperate for any real human touch. She wants him desperate for her touch alone.

He takes both of her searching hands in one of his, the other under her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. His pupils are like black holes.

"Your _last_ name. Did your boss really think that could keep you safe?"

She knew he was smart.

"I don't have one. I don't have a family; I don't have a family name."

"Bullshit."

Not fair. That's her word.

"It's true. I'm dead to them now."

"Take me to your boss. Now."

"Oh I'm _sorry._ He's in Prague on business. He won't be back for a week, at least."

"Then who did you run to? When you disappeared? Take me to him now, and I won't stop you leaving."

It's not like she can leave anyway.

It's not like he'd let her.

She can hear them now, the fists and muscle who blindly obey the workings of the brain upstairs, as if this place is living, not just bricks and bodies commanded to act the part. They wear white because it's easier to bleach, cuts down expenditure on the cruder side of commerce. The brawn is put in storage, heads scrubbed out and rinsed just as their uniforms start the spin cycle. There are at least ten 'John's, all new recruits from an agency, first night on duty, empty minds which leave no trail back to _him_. He likes them because they know nothing but loyalty, and their memories are simple, easy to wipe. Every night is their first, and last.

And Violet stays quiet, keeps him distracted, studies the difference between black iris and black pupil, clasps her hands to stop herself tracing the ink on his face. She thinks she could feel it move if she tried.

So when the men in white, onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineandten, burst through a tiny door frame that really should have collapsed in the process, he whips around to face them, fast enough to make her flinch. Sympathy is not a desirable trait in their line of work.

His hand is in his empty pocket, digging for a knife that's up her sleeve. But then it's not. It's in her hand, buried in the ribcage of John number one, leaving a line of red across the open throat of John number two, slicing through the left hand of John number three.

That's when he joins in.

He barely touches them, and they're flying through the air, convulsing in the current of his touch, veins imploding, skin marked like they've been struck by lightning. He's frying them from inside out, boiling their blood until they're eyeless and stumbling.

He's strong, and fast, and dangerous. She knows he can do more, that it's lack of practice and hidden morality stopping him from stepping up, joining the ranks of puppet masters who twitch strings and raise armies.

He's a god. A halo of golden hair that shines with blood. He's death. She can see the tendrils that circle his wrists, darker and more fluid than smoke. He thinks he can hide the darkness from her. But she's seen it all before.

It's the first time it's taken her breath away.

She can't tell, not really, now she's holding her own, a quick knife to a heavy hand, but the walls are moving. Shrinking, growing narrower, ceiling falling towards her. It brushes her head and Tate's stooping, slipping through slower, clumsier bodies.

And the white walls aren't white anymore, and John's tan skin is turning black and red under his hands.

She can see brain matter on the sole of his shoe.

That's when he grabs her hand, and she stops breathing.

...

He's on the floor, panting, reaching to grasp her hand again, searching for purchase on empty air. She's not here, beside him, on the cold floor of his apartment. He remembers the wards, checks the door, the staircase that leads up from the street. And finds nothing. He was thoughtless. He fucked up. He left her there to face whatever they were, the men who shared a face.

There's still seven hours until doors open, until she can get out alone.

He thought she'd be safe. He thought he could keep her safe. Get her out. Take her away. Pretend he doesn't know her kiss was all for show.

There's a voice in his head, whispering, nobility buried in cobwebs. Telling him to go back, to take the chance, to risk slipping under police tape to get to her. To take the fall or wipe some memories or spill some blood or something.

But rationality steps in, overriding the whispers of good intentions with harsh words and a bucket of psychological cold water.

He dons a jacket, turns on his heel, following the thread that's been tugging, needling at him for days. Pushing him to lay some groundwork. No rest for the wicked.

...

Violet's gasping, chest heaving, lungs useless.

Her head is splitting, feels like drowning, like a hundred thousand tonnes of dark water is pressing on her skull, bones screaming in protest. The blackness is forcing its way into the vacuum of her lungs, burning, charring, tearing.

She hasn't felt this way in a long time.

The skin on her hands is cracked and red. Her hair is wet with blood, the stench of iron making her gag, knowing she's dying, can't die, won't survive, he won't let her.

She kicks her legs. They're held in iron bands, in thin air and his silent, eerie, murderous stare. She's paralysed.

He calls it _lessons_.

She calls it perdition.

He doesn't care about the bodies she left behind: they'll be up and running soon enough. But she missed one, the one he wanted, the one he hold her collateral damage didn't apply to. He knows she kissed him, really kissed him, because he can see the red stain on her mind.

He sees more than he'll ever admit to, but she doesn't care. Tate Langdon is smart, knows who she is, what she is, what she'd be willing to do to get her monthly bonus. She knew he'd never trust her. He won't come back. He'll run, he'll know, he'll make use of that atom bomb he calls his power, make a call to his demonic guardian angels. Promise them cities if they'll hide him.

She screams because she doesn't know what else to do, when he reaches for the doll. It's wrong that something so innocent focuses his power, the channel that snaps her bones and slices her skin and plants voices in her head.

The figure's limbs twitch and bend. Her body contorts, bones and discs slipping and grinding against one another.

His voice reverberates through her head, body shaking, convulsing and fighting to escape the offensive sound.

He tells her not to struggle. That it only makes it harder. That he'll let her go, as soon as she learns.

You never learn, Violet.

You can't save them. Not one. Not if you hope to live.

He admires her bravery, misplaced as it was. Her reflexes are better, her control of her own body growing beyond what he has ever expected, ever hoped for. He was right, to choose her. The strongest of the wayward souls.

His fierce little girl.


End file.
